I remember when the twins were teeny babies and I would take them out, the first questions people would ask were “Are they boys or girls?” and “How much did they weigh?” After that, the women would ask in hushed tones, “You’re not…nursing them, are you?” Why, yes! Yes I was. And so I had to say so, and accept my new reputation as some sort of Hard-Core Breastfeed-or-Die type.

I was fully prepared to bottle-feed, and in fact I had pre-purchased a small supply of bottles and formula in case it was an emergency and I couldn’t nurse them even one more single second. But as it turned out, neither twin ever took a bottle. It happened this way not because I am so philosophically firm on the issue of breastfeeding, but because I am lazy and breastfeeding was genuinely easier for me.

It wouldn’t have been easier, though, without two things. The first thing was the training the nurses gave me at the hospital. They let me get all the way to 4:30 in the morning the first night without intervening: I’d said I wanted to feed the twins separately at first, and learn to feed them together later, so they let me go to it. All night long, I was feeding one baby while the other baby cried, back and forth between them.

I was actually more incredulous than miserable: still high from the birth, and from the feeling of not being pregnant anymore, my feeling was more, “Um, this isn’t going to work!” than “Open that window so I can leap out.” At 4:30, the nurse came in. “So,” she said. “Would you like me to show you how to tandem-nurse now?” I did not fall to the floor and cover her white sensible shoes with kisses, whatever you may have heard. But I did say, “Um, yes. Please.” So she showed me how to stack pillows and how to arrange two babies and how to sit properly so I wasn’t dying from discomfort, and that was the first thing that made everything easier. From then on, I breastfed both babies at the same time, so I was never jittering one leg nervously as a baby screamed and I mentally begged the other baby to hurry up and finish already. Also, it takes half the time of feeding babies one after the other.

The second thing that made everything easier was a gift from my cousin Lee: a tandem nursing pillow. It was inflatable, which turned out to be one of its best features: I could make it a little firmer or a little softer depending on the babies’ sizes and positions. It came with an inflatable back pillow, which made me much more comfortable. And it propped both babies to exactly the right height, so that I could even take my hands off them and read a book while I nursed them. I could theoretically nurse both babies at the same time using piles of pillows like they did in the hospital, but that was much more difficult to arrange.

I got so comfortable using that pillow and scooping up babies and having peace and quiet while they nursed, it never seemed like the right time to start fussing with bottles. The one time I really, really wanted bottles, though, was when we were out. How do you breastfeed twins discreetly in public? The answer is that you do not. What you do is you nurse one baby discreetly while the other one wails, drawing attention to you sitting there with a huge squirming lump under your shirt. It confuses people: there’s the crying baby who clearly wants to eat, so what are you doing? They come in for a closer look. The baby unlatches to see who that is coming over, revealing half a boob. Jesus.

Oh, did I mention that breastfeeding twins burns about 1000 calories per day? Yes. It is glorious.

I’m reading a book called The Girls, which is about a set of conjoined twins. One of the twins becomes pregnant. Two things she says about pregnancy resonate with me:

– “Having been born, as Ruby and I were intended to be born, joined at the skull, we are normal to ourselves. It’s normal for me and Ruby to be who we are and to live as we do. But being pregnant did not feel normal. For the first time in my life, I felt fully freakish and monstrously, hideously, deformed.”

– “…my delight and my horror, and my misery and my bliss, at the occupation of my body.”

Okay, so I don’t truly feel freakish, or monstrously hideously deformed, nor would I say I’ve experienced “horror.” But it does feel peculiar, this possession by baby.

Considering how much of my mental activity is taken up with being pregnant, it is a surprise to me that no one knows about it unless I tell them. They might think I look tired, or ill, or that my skin sure doesn’t look as good as usual, or that my hair seems to need washing, but they don’t know I’m pregnant. My own husband wouldn’t know, if I hadn’t told him.

That is one of the satisfactions of early pregnancy, and also one of the things that makes the information difficult to incorporate. It is pleasing, walking around with that “I’ve got a secret” feeling. I know I’m pregnant, but the clerk at the grocery store doesn’t. I know I’m pregnant, but the old woman who just said, “FOUR children? I can’t imagine!” doesn’t. I can still sleep on my tum if I want to, or I can lie on my back. I can sit normally in a chair. I’m wearing my “fat pants,” but other than that I’m in regular clothes.

But it is hard to accept the realness of the situation, when everything seems the same. I don’t look pregnant. I don’t feel pregnant. I feel like I have stomach flu. I can leaf through The Baby Name Wizard a million times, but I’m looking at names for a theoretical baby, not one who will actually be here next year.

Yesterday I had some painful cramping, and it crossed my mind that having a miscarriage would not be 100% bad. Today when I have felt even queasier than usual all day, and the twins have seemed especially baby-like and difficult to manage emotionally and logistically, and the pregnancy stretches long before me with all its impending discomforts (“Oh, that ‘can’t breathe’ feeling–I forgot that’s coming up soon”), it crosses my mind again. Then I feel worse, imagining how I’ll feel later, when the dear, dear baby is born and irreplaceable, and I’m looking down at it thinking, “I thought a miscarriage might in some ways be welcome.”

It’s such a neverending feeling of “doing it wrong,” this parenting thing. I remember back when I was pregnant with my first, thinking things like, “Maybe this whole thing was a bad idea. Maybe we should have gone with the other plan, the one where we have cats and tulips and money and we spend weekends at Barnes & Noble.” When I was pregnant with my second, I was thinking, “The spacing is all wrong. We should have gone with the other plan, the one where we waited until Robert was in kindergarten, or until he was 3-1/2, or until NEVER.” When I was pregnant with the twins, I was thinking, “We should have stopped at two. Something will go wrong, and everyone will say, ‘You just HAD to keep going, you just COULDN’T be happy with the national average.’ Also, now we can’t have a sedan, we’re going to have to get a minivan.”

Now I’m pregnant for a fourth time, and I didn’t mean to be, and that raises even more of these feelings and thoughts. Thoughts like, “This baby wasn’t supposed to happen.” Thoughts like, “Maybe we’ve wrecked our Exactly Right family, and we’ll always think so, and always wish we hadn’t.”

Fortunately these thoughts are balanced by other thoughts, thoughts from the part of me that isn’t under siege by hormones that attack with barfing and emotions. Thoughts from my usual self, the self that says, “These things usually work out fine in the end, after a brief panicky adjustment period” and “One day in the future, you’ll look back and won’t be able to believe you didn’t know this baby was coming all along” and “Oooh goodie, a BABY!!”

Do you have a song you’re embarrassed to have an emotional reaction to, but you can’t help it? Mine is Martina McBride’s “This One’s For the Girls.” I hear it in the car from time to time, and I lose it every time. Extra losing it if I’m driving, music-video-style, past first a group of teenaged girls, then an older woman walking briskly, then a middle-aged woman with her dog. It makes me feel all connected to all those other “girls,” even the teenaged ones who usually grate on my nerves by shrieking and shoving as they walk along, giving sidelong glances toward the road to make sure everyone’s watching.

I just watched the new(ish) Adam Sandler movie Click. It’s about a guy who gets a remote that lets him fast-forward or pause parts of his life. He uses it to fast-forward the plodding time until his promotion, and of course discovers that this means he lost time with his family, too. The problem gets worse and worse until he’s missed practically his whole life, and also he’s lost his wife, missed his kids’ childhoods, missed the death of a parent, etc. Looking back, he realizes he’s done none of the important things and all of the stupid things, and he’s wasted his entire life.

Is there any movie more likely to strike a parent’s heart with fear and anxiety? Already I worry that while I’m “taking a break from the kids,” what I’m really doing is spending time with the computer that I’ll look back on later as a colossal waste of time that took me away from my dear, dear children. Okay, so they’re driving me nuts now and if I don’t get away from them the yelling is going to start, but what if one of them DIES? And then I’ll think back and I’ll remember all the times I said, “Not now, honey, just let Mommy check her email.” OH MY GOD.

And what about all the times I hope for things to be over? I hope for potty-training to be over, for the tantrum stage to be over, for the back-talking thing to be over. But then I’ll be old, and the house will be quiet and I’ll have nothing to do, and my children will be far away and will think I’m foolish and old, and I’ll pine for these days! I’ll want nothing more than to wipe up pee drops from the floor around the toilet again! I’ll have to beg one of my grown sons to come over and miss the bowl! I’m wasting my whole life!

I’ve been hoping for the morning sickness to hurry up and go away, but later I’ll imagine this pregnancy in a glow of morning sunshine, when everything was beautiful and full of hope, and there were things to look forward to.

What is the matter with our brains, that they have to screw with us like this? We shouldn’t have to feel as if we’re missing things if we’re not enjoying every single not-always-enjoyable second. This parenting thing is the best ever, but it can also be the worst ever, and it is a huge pain in the ass to realize that later on I’m going to be wishing I’d spent more time doing it. Right now I want to spend some time writing, or reading, or eating some Kit Kat Bites I don’t have to share, but later on that won’t seem important at all, and I’ll be beating myself up for the hours I didn’t spend cuddling the babies and playing games with my older kids. That sucks!

One reason I keep a journal (not this blog, but an actual physical journal) is that it lets me feel like I’m storing things up for later. I can’t enjoy this deluge of parenting right now, while I’m drowning in it, but I can put some of it in a book and take it out later on and enjoy it then. I take too many photos for the same reason: if I take photos, I’m storing little bits of time. I can’t see it now, when I’m so tired and barfy and just want to go to a store by myself, but I can see it later. Through TEARS, probably. URG.

And speaking of tears, I cried so hard during that movie I nearly barfed. Pregnancy hormones + pregnancy nausea + huge sentimental moment with the rain pouring down and declarations of love with music to match = sobbing + gagging.

I have first-haircut photos for each of my first two kids, and both of them are under a year old in those photos. Robert was about 11 months old, and I gave him a trim before his one-year photo. William was more like 10 months old, and he got a haircut because his hair was so shaggy.

Neither of the twins has yet needed a haircut, and they are 16 months old. They have short, fine, baby hair still. Elizabeth’s is a little longer than Edward’s, but only long enough for the silliest of teesy ponytails, the kind that slips out if she shakes her head. When I take the twins out in public, people often think they’re two boys.

When, oh when will I be able to style her hair in little styley ways? It was one of the main benefits of having a girl, I thought.

Here is what is bothering me (today): the “Kid delicious, Mom nutritious!”-type advertising. I understand what they’re trying to communicate: your kids will like it better than carrot sticks, and you will like it better than Pop-Tarts (for them, I mean; for yourself, you’d want the Pop-Tarts). But doesn’t it make “Mom” sound like a big old stick-in-the-mud, a sourpuss card-carrying member of the Nutrition Police? “Hey, we know you usually want your kids to eat tasteless nutritious crap, but here’s something yummy that even YOU will let them eat, you heartless old nag! For the love of pete, give the kid a break now and then, will ya?”

Personally, I groan just a much as the kids do about things like eating vegetables. I try to set a good example, and that good example is that I eat things that are good for me even though I don’t like them, not that I go around like MY mom did, saying, “Mmm-MM! These carrots are so sweet, they’re just like CANDY!”

I don’t think it does a kid any favors to hear that fruits and vegetables are more delicious than a Burger King TenderCrisp Spicy chicken sandwich with a large side of fries. This was the message at my house growing up, and the conclusions I drew were (1) that my mom was nuts and didn’t know what the heck she was talking about, and (2) that if people were supposed to find fruits and vegetables more delicious than junk, then something was wrong with me. It would have worked better on me for her to say that we can’t always eat the things our tastebuds lead us to, and that a person can learn to also like the nutritious foods they have to eat most of the time. I can go for that point of view: grapes and apples ARE yummy, as long as no one is trying to tell me they’re “dessert.” Carrot sticks CAN be satisfying, as long as no one is saying they’re a good substitute for chips.

I’d read several places that almonds were a good way to reduce pregnancy nausea. I will try anything short of crack that claims to reduce pregnancy nausea, so 24 hours and $4 later, I had a can of almonds in the house.

No dice. Not only are they ineffective at reducing nausea (for me, I mean), they’re a grainy, pasty thing to try to chew and swallow when you’re queasy. Little teeny bits cling to my mouth and throat, making me cough and then, of course, gag.